I Shouldn't Have To Tell You This

« January 2006 »

Memo to America: WE NEED TO TALK.

It's Friday, January 27, 2006. A day that will live in infamy. Today marks the release of "Big Momma's House 2", and I can't help but think that I shouldn't need to tell you to stay the fuck away from it.

But then I realized. It's been almost SIX YEARS. Which is a sobering thought right there. It's been six years since Martin Lawrence slapped on a fat suit for an hour and a half of wacky crossdressing hijinks. Six years is a long time. In May of 2000, Bill Clinton was president. Oceans still protected us. The only people who knew the name "Jack Abramoff" were playing golf and counting stacks of money. And Dick Cheney thought invading Iraq would be a great idea.

Six years is plenty of time for scars to fade, and for the original Big Momma's House to pass into memory as, while not exactly a PLEASANT experience, the kind of thing you can, and inevitably do, flip past between two and twenty times over the course of a weekend, depending on your cable package. And you can do this without screaming - not something you can say about Catwoman, or Battlefield Earth.

And it's not like you people showed great judgment back in 2000, either. The movie definitely earned its only award, the Giant Bag of Cash. I cannot assume that you've gotten smarter since then. Especially with two or three Novembers worth of evidence to the contrary.

But even if you enjoyed the original - even if you were... I don't know, the Big Momma's House equivalent of the Browncoats. Let's call them the Giantpanties. Even if you were a member of the Giantpanties, it'd be a really good idea for you to stay the hell home this weekend. Because you may not know this, but the brilliant creative minds behind the original Big Momma's House have moved on and been replaced by complete hacks.

Forget the stunning auteurship of Raja Gosnell. He's made TWO SCOOBY DOO MOVIES, dammit! He doesn't need to slum around with old comedians in drag anymore. The sequel is directed by John Whitesell, whose name you cannot possibly recognize. Because if you saw his name, it was in the credits for "Malibu's Most Wanted", and if you saw "Malibu's Most Wanted", and you were ever capable of higher brain function, you aren't anymore.

Forget the lilting bon mots and generally good penmanship of Darryl Quarles, who has, um, vanished off the face of the planet. I like to think he's wandering from town to town in a beat-up van, helping the locals fight off greedy businessmen before waving goodbye and driving on. You do, however, get his co-writer, Don Rhymer, who has been honing his craft on "The Santa Clause 2" and "Agent Cody Banks 2", but who has been, I'm sure, secretly itching to return to the rich tapestry that is the Big Mommaverse. Or just secretly itching. Hollywood's a tough town.

The cast is huge, yet full of nobody. There's a scene in a Victoria's Secret, which cannot possibly go well. And, just in case it hasn't sunk in yet, it's BIG MOMMA'S HOUSE 2. You walk into that theater, and you're taking your sanity into your own hands. And when they have to peel your gibbering corpus out of the plush stadium seating to make room for the next room full of suckers, you won't be able to say I didn't warn you. Because you'll just be moaning "thong slingshot" over and over until the Thorazine kicks in.